You've Always Got Me
by Scallisaac
Summary: He takes comfort in Scott's warmth, his body pressed up next to his, and does his best to block out everything else. Because even with everything else that's so wrong in their lives, at least they still have this. At least they still have each other. (And that's the way it's going to stay)
1. Chapter 1

It's a weird feeling, driving Stiles's jeep. He's always been on the passenger side, fiddling with the radio and blasting his favorite pop songs and annoying the shit out of Stiles. He's always watched his friend drum his spidery fingers impatiently against the steering wheel and he'd smile fondly to himself at Stiles's creative use of profanity when dealing with incompetent drivers.

So it feels weird— it feels _wrong_— to be behind the wheel, with Kira sitting in the passenger seat and Stiles passed out in the back of his own jeep.

He knows he's crying— he can feel the wetness on his cheeks and the blurriness in his vision, but he's doing his best to do it silently; he refuses to give into the screams of pain that are clawing at his insides and the howl of misery stuck in his throat. It takes all his concentration to keep his hands from shaking and to blink away the tears from his eyes in order to keep the road in front of him in focus.

(How awful would that be, after everything they'd been through, if he ended up killing them all in a car crash because he was _crying?_)

He can feel Kira staring at him, can sense her hesitation, her uncertainty over whether or not to say something. He's crying openly and unashamedly now—he knows that she can see, and he doesn't care. In the end, she rests her hand over his, one that's clutching the steering wheel so tightly he's afraid it might break, and she does her best to steady its shaking. He doesn't say anything, he_ can't_ say anything, but he's grateful, and he thinks (he hopes) that she knows.

After a minute or two, after he's collected himself somewhat, he asks if she's okay (she had regained consciousness after Deaton showed up, and although Deaton said she would be fine, Scott still worries. He always worries, nowadays). She gives him a little nod and a small smile but doesn't return the question, for which Scott is grateful.

She knows the answer, after all, and to ask would be pointless and unnecessary. Instead, she leans over and kisses him on the cheek, squeezes his hand and whispers, "It'll be okay, Scott. We'll figure something out. He's going to be okay. _You're_ going to be okay."

Scott doesn't smile, doesn't nod, can't even bring himself to look at her, but he squeezes her hand back and whispers a quiet "Thank you" in return.

By the time Scott drops Kira off at her house, after walking her to her door and staying to make sure she gets in safe and unharmed, the tears have dried on his face. It doesn't take much for him to make the decision—because there's no way he can even think about leaving Stiles alone right now and the Sheriff will likely be out all night dealing with the aftermath of the bomb in the police station—to make a quick call to let the Sherriff know that Stiles will be staying over his house for the night and assure him not to worry.

"Just…make sure he's alright, okay Scott? But who am I kidding; you two have always been good at looking out for each other—I trust you" Stiles's dad says on the other line. It takes everything in him not to break down right there, a sharp pain twisting in his gut, and he's knows it's not just the pain from the physical wound that hasn't quite healed yet, but from something so much worse than any sword could ever cause.

But he simply replies "Of course" (because what else can he possibly say? By the way, Mr. Stilinski, apparently I'm not so good at looking after your son after all because he's being possessed by an evil trickster spirit that just tried to kill me and was probably trying to kill you earlier too but yeah, of course, don't worry, everything is okay?), and although his voice breaks and his eyes burn, he holds it together because he has to.

He has to be strong—for Stiles, for Sheriff Stilinski, for _everyone_; he can't afford to break down when so many people are looking to him, needing him to be strong, needing him to be a leader— a true alpha, he thinks with contempt.

Because he never wanted this. He never wanted any of this, but he has a responsibility now, and he'll be damned before he turns his back on the people who need him.

The drive from Kira's house to his is a blur—he's going way over the speed limit and while he's usually very conscious about these things, he can't bring himself to care. He just needs to get out of this car and out from behind the wheel, from this feeling that's all wrong, wrong, _wrong_.

He wastes no time, after pulling into his empty driveway, scooping up a still unconscious Stiles from the backseat of the jeep and into his arms, cradling him against his chest with every ounce of care and gentleness he can manage.

The lights are off in the house and he knows his mom must be pulling a late shift at the hospital because her car isn't in the driveway. With a guilty pang he realizes he's grateful for the fact that she's not there right now, that he won't have to explain anything to her right away because he's not in the mood to explain the blood on his clothes and the huge rip in his shirt and why he's entirely soaking wet and the reason he's carrying an unconscious Stiles in his arms.

Stiles is shivering— Scott can feel how ice-cold his friend's skin is pressed up against his own and notices that his lips are beginning to turn blue. He gently pushes the hair clinging to Stiles's wet forehead out of his face and let's his hand linger over his mouth, taking small comfort in his friend's hot breath against his palm (because despite everything, Stiles is alive) before carrying him up the stairs and into his bedroom, which proves to be a rather difficult task considering his insides are still screaming in pain from a wound that has yet to heal.

He lays his friend down on his bed and begins rooting through his draws, looking for dry clothes. After he finds what he's looking for he removes the wet clothes clinging to Stiles's skin slowly and with care, wincing at the blood splattered all over his friend's shirt that he knows must be his.

Stiles looks so small, so fragile, so vulnerable lying there on his bed, and maybe he's being overly sentimental, but Scott can't help himself when he pulls the covers up to cover his friend's still shivering body and tucks him in, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead and wishing he could do more to help.

Even in sleep, even while he's still completely knocked out from whatever Deaton injected him with, Stiles doesn't look peaceful. Scott watches his friend's face contorted in what looks like fear and pain, with the crease in his forehead and the downturn of the corners of his mouth, and wonders whether the nogitsune is there in his head right now. He decides he'd rather not think about what it might be saying, what vicious things it might be twisting into his friend's mind.

They've been through so much together, he and Stiles— in fact, he can't think of a single significant event in his life that Stiles hasn't been there to help him through, and vice-versa. For every first they've had together, every happy moment, they've also been through some really shitty things and some really awful situations together, and yet Scott has never felt this helpless, this _hopeless_.

His stomach still burns, and he's not sure if it's from the pain of being stabbed by the nogitsune while being forced to look into his best friend's cold, expressionless eyes, (all the while knowing Stiles must be trapped in there somewhere, perhaps looking back, screaming to be let out), or if it's the persistent nausea twisting his stomach in knots: this feeling that he can't do anything to help his friend right now, that on top of the fact that Stiles might be dying he's also being possessed and that according to Deaton, if they can't find another cure soon, the only option might be to turn him or, if that doesn't work, to kill him.

He wants to cry, he wants to throw up, he wants to lie down and sleep for a thousand years and not have to think about any of this, not have to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders and uphold this responsibility to protect everyone. He wants to wake up to a world where everything is back to the way it was before; before werewolves and hunters and kanimas and darachs and nemetons and kitsunes and nogitsunes and every other goddamn supernatural creature in this town.

He would give anything to go back to the days where it was just him and Stiles, two best friends against the world, feeling invincible and living their lives like normal kids, when their biggest concern was whether or not they were ever going to find dates to the big upcoming school dance (they ended up going with each other, sort of as a joke but also sort of not) and the biggest drama they had to face was fighting over what movie to watch after school or what videogame to play.

But this is his life now, and he's willing to give it up to protect those around him. And he sure as hell isn't about to lose Stiles.

Just the thought of a life without his best friend, _his brother_, brings tears to his eyes again and makes him want to scream. Because it always seemed so far off, so totally incomprehensible. But now…now it's not such an unlikely concept.

He's not going to let that happen though, he decides, sitting down in the chair in the corner of his room and watching his friend toss and turn restlessly in his sleep. He won't lose Stiles; he _can't_ lose Stiles.

(He's also not going to sleep tonight)

The first thing that Stiles notices when he wakes up is that he's not in his own bed. It only takes a few seconds to identify it as Scott's—it's too warm and comforting to be anyone else's, and this isn't the first time he's slept in his friend's bed, although they haven't had a proper sleepover in years.

The second thing he notices is that he's dry, which is strange, because he remembers being soaking wet before, when…

Images suddenly flash through his mind, of explosions and darkness and blood, blood, _so much blood_, staining his very own hands…images of his body doing things he had no control over, things that made him scream, while he remained trapped in his own mind for days. Planting bombs, planning murders, causing pain…and Scott. Oh, god, Scott. Did it really…did _he_ really…do that? Put a sword through his best friend? Twist and twist and twist as Scott begged him to stop and cried out in pain?

_Maybe it was all just a dream,_ he thinks to himself, hopes with all his being, as he sits up in Scott's bed and takes in his surroundings. He looks down at his hands and his world comes crashing down around him, because no—it wasn't just a dream, it was real, all real, and that's Scott's blood on his hands, that's his brother's blood beneath his fingernails.

He can tell Scott must've tried to wash them while he was asleep, but he missed the tips of his fingers and some spots on his palms and all he can think about is how Scott must have still taken care of him after everything, brought him back to his house and let him sleep in his bed even after he literally pushed a sword deeper and deeper into his flesh. He imagines Scott furiously scrubbing to get his own blood off of Stiles hands, and he wants nothing more than to cry.

He notices that the clothes he is wearing are not his own; he's in Scott's baggy green shirt, the one that he's always stealing and that he wears so often he teasingly insists Scott should just let him keep. He'd never admit it, but the reason he loves it so much is that it always smells like Scott, it smells like home, and it just feels right against his skin.

The thought of Scott taking the time to pick out the shirt that he knows is Stiles's favorite and put in on him in place of one that must have been dripping wet from the rain and hiss own blood makes him choke back a laugh that's half a sob because _Jesus Christ, Scott, is it even possible for one person to be so selfless?_

He's shaking when Scott comes into the room, hand clamped over his mouth to muffle his crying. He's never been as open as Scott with crying in front of other people, and even though he knows this is Scott and of course Scott wouldn't mind, he can't help himself.

It's obvious Scott doesn't see him at first, doesn't realize that Stiles is awake, because he comes into the room looking more tired than Stiles has ever seen him, hunched over as if he's being crushed by the burden of a responsibility that he's taken on, that life has forced on him. His eyes are red-rimmed from crying and his face looks so drawn and hopeless; Stiles can't help but think he looks like he did that day at the motel, the one that still kills him to think about.

As soon as he sees Stiles sitting up in the bed, watching him, Scott immediately straightens up, schooling his features and forcing the hopeless expression from his face. Stiles knows that Scott is doing this for his sake, trying to be strong for him, for everyone, because he's_ Scott, _and even before the bite, before their lives went to shit, he's always held other people's well-beings over his own.

Stiles is still staring at him, watching Scott's every movement as he comes over and sits on the edge of the bed. He clears his throat and starts to speak; "I—sorry. I didn't want to leave but you've been out for a while, and I wanted to visit Isaac again, you know, to make sure he's okay, because it feels weird not having him in the house too, you know? I've kind of gotten used to him being here but anyway…I think he's doing better. Hopefully he'll be out of the hospital soon, and uh…what?" he asks, because now Stiles is shaking his head, not sure whether he wants to laugh or cry. Because is Scott seriously _apologizing_?

And because Scott knows Stiles, he probably realizes what his friend must be thinking, because he gives him a small smile before talking again, this time speaking much more softly.

"I'm not sure how much you remember or how much you know happened, but Deaton did something to poison the nogitsune. He says it's only a temporary solution, that it's only temporarily subdued, but that's…that's something right? At the very least, it gives us time. We'll figure something out. I promise. We're going to get this thing out of you; I'm not going to lose you, Stiles_. I can't_."

It doesn't take much to close the space in between them, Stiles just has to lean over, and he doesn't even give a second thought before he wraps his arms around Scott, squeezing him tight and burying his face in his shoulder, choking out the words "I'm sorry" with every sob, with every intake of breath, his tears soaking Scott's shirt.

And Scott rocks Stiles gently back and forth, running his hand up and down his friend's back and whispering "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay" his own eyes and throat burning. And when Stiles holds him even tighter, he can't hide a small wince and the way his body suddenly tenses up.

Stiles notices, and he releases Scott as if he's been burned, his eyes leaving his face and trailing down to his stomach, to the blood that's starting to soak through the fabric of his shirt even though it's clear Scott has already changed out of what he was wearing earlier.

"It's okay; I swear, I'm okay. It's just taking a little longer to heal. Seriously, I swear, it's healing as we speak. Hey, come on Stiles, look at me— Stiles! _It's fine_."

But it doesn't look fine, and even if it is healing Scott is clearly still in pain, and Stiles can't take his eyes off the spot on Scott's stomach where he knows the wound is concealed and _oh God oh God oh God_

"I did that" is all he can think to say as he continues to stare in horror. "I did this. _I hurt you."_ And suddenly it's getting very hard to breathe again, and all he can think is that he hurt his best friend, and Scott's not healing fast enough, and the corners of his vision are starting to go all black and blurry and he thinks he must be on the brink of another panic attack when Scott grabs his face in his hands, with a forcefulness that's strong but somehow gentle, and guides his gaze upward.

"Stiles. Look at me. _Listen to me_. This. Wasn't. You. You didn't do this, okay? None of this has been you. It's the nogitsune, the thing that's been keeping you trapped inside your own head while it uses your body, and we're going to find a way to get rid of it. I will find a way to get rid of it, I swear. And don't you dare go blaming yourself—are you forgetting that I tried to kill you on multiple occasions when I was still trying to get control over this whole werewolf thing? So…so please just listen to me and please believe me when I say that this wasn't your fault, okay?"

Stiles takes a deep, shaky breath and his breathing is starting to return to normal and his vision becomes clearer, because now Scott's running his hand up and down his back again, trying his best to comfort him, to let him know he's there, to assure him that it's okay. And it's working, and Stiles wants nothing more than to believe what Scott's telling him; he's trying, he really is, but he doesn't know if he can, not yet.

He nods anyway, and says "Yeah, yeah okay. You're right" and he may be lying just to satisfy Scott—because it's not okay and it will never be okay and what if it really _was_ him who did all those things, what if it wasn't just the nogitsune?— but it's worth it for the smile that Scott gives him in return.

"Good. Now do you think you're feeling up to watching some Star Wars with me? I stopped by your house on my way back from the hospital and I picked up the DVDs because I figured you could use a healthy distraction with everything going on, and I've still never seen them, you know…I got your favorite food too, those weird sour things that I'll never understand why you like…but I mean, if you don't want to that's fine too, it was a stupid idea, but I—"

"Scott." Stiles cuts him off. He's still trying to wrap his mind around how he ever managed to get lucky enough to have Scott McCall as his best friend; he's never met anyone as thoughtful, as caring, as genuinely _good_.

He wants to say all these things, he wants to tell Scott how important he is and how great of a person he is and he wants to tell him he needs to look after himself, too, but instead he just says, "I can't believe you've still never seen Star Wars. I thought you promised me you were going to watch the movies like, months ago, you asshole."

Scott's smile widens at Stiles teasing and he lets himself think that maybe they will be okay after all, because this is them, this is how they always been, and at the end of the day this is how their always going to be—this banter and teasing that they both know just hides how much they both care. So he replies with a laugh, "Not without you, dumbass."

And Stiles smiles, for the first time in days, because Scott's smile is infectious and he how can he not smile when his friend is looking at him like that, like he's his whole world.

(He's sure the way he's looking at Scott must be the same)

And as Scott puts the DVD into his computer, balancing it on his lap and lying down next to Stiles, their arms and legs so close they're practically touching, Stiles lets himself believe, if only for a moment, that maybe things really will be okay, because he trusts Scott, (he loves Scott), and as he rests his head on Scott's shoulder he knows his best friend isn't going anywhere.

Some part of him knows he's lying to himself, but he can't help feeling right in this moment, laying here next to his best friend just like old times, and watching Star Wars as if he didn't just dig a sword deeper and deeper into Scott's stomach, as if he didn't have this awful thing whispering things in his head, biding its time and waiting to come out and take over again, as if he doesn't have the same disease his mother died from, as if his life isn't completely going to shit.

He takes comfort in Scott's warmth, his body pressed up next to his, and does his best to block out everything else. Because even with everything else that's so wrong in their lives, at least they still have this. At least they still have each other.

(And that's the way it's going to stay)


	2. Chapter 2

A couple weeks later, Stiles finds himself waking up in Scott's bed again, this time with Scott right by his side.

The past two weeks have been like something straight out of a horror movie, but somehow, against all odds, against everyone telling Scott that the only way to save Stiles— the only way to get rid of the nogitsune— was to kill him, and after days and days of Scott arguing with everyone, refusing to give up on his friend and to accept that he was a lost cause long after everyone else (aside from the Sheriff) already had, somehow they found a way to get the nogitsune out of Stiles, to save him without him having to die.

(Did they really expect anything less from Scott McCall? From the boy who would do anything even to save a stranger, let alone his best friend?)

So here they are, Scott and Stiles, lying in bed together after an exhausting night of watching movies and stuffing their faces with pizza and playing videogames ("Mario cart is not a joke, Scott. You've got to go all out," Stiles insists after Scott, trying very hard not to laugh, tells him he should probably take it easy because by the third time he comes in last place, Stiles is cursing profusely and yelling at the TV screen) and trying very hard to push the events of the past few weeks (months actually, if they really want to start at the beginning) far out of their minds.

They've been doing this a lot lately.

Because Scott finally has Stiles back, and even though he's different in some ways—maybe his eyes are a little duller and maybe he's a little bit quieter than he used to be, less full of life and energy and eagerness to uncover all of the secrets the world has to offer, because now there's a scar on his heart that will never really go away from the terrible things that he's done, the things that he's been _forced_ to do—he's still Stiles, he's still Scott's best friend, and Scott is never going to let anyone take that away from him again.

_Never. Again._

At some point during the night, they're both lying on their backs and staring up at the ceiling, trying not to dwell on how being so close to each other makes them feel, the way it makes their skin itch, begging to be touched, or on the fact that they're sharing Scott's twin-sized bed and the lights are off and Scott's mom isn't home and won't be all night.

When it's clear that neither of them have fallen asleep yet (Scott can tell by listening to Stiles's breathing that he's still just as awake as he is, and Stiles doesn't really need super-sensitive hearing to tell that his friend is still awake because of how tense Scott's body feels next to his) or are going to fall asleep any time soon, Stiles is left to his thoughts and the past few weeks all kind of come rushing back (at least what he remembers of them) and he can't help himself from doing what he does next.

Stiles sort of rolls over so that he's basically on top of Scott, and Scott is kind of shocked at first but realizes quickly that he definitely doesn't mind this new development, as Stiles removes his shirt, slowly and with care, and begins trailing kisses up and down his stomach, over a wound that has long since healed but that to Stiles will never really be gone.

And he can't stop thinking about it—what he did, what the nogitsune _made_ him do— so he whispers "I'm sorry" over and over again, in between every kiss, with every exhale of breath, murmuring the words against the spot on Scott's stomach where he knows the injury should be— a wound that, by all accounts, would have killed him if his body hadn't had the supernatural ability to heal itself— until Scott can feel something warm and wet on his skin and realizes that Stiles is crying.

He responds by sitting up and bringing Stiles along with him, leveling his friend's face with his own, and resting his hand against Stiles's cheek as he begins kissing away his friend's tears, brushing his lips against against the tracks they've left down Stiles's face as he tells him what he's already told him a thousand times already—that it wasn't his fault, that _none of this_ was his fault, alternating between "It's okay" and "You're okay" and_"We're going to be okay."_

When Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and relaxes into his friend's familiar touch, Scott murmurs "It's okay" one last time, this time right against Stiles mouth, brushing his friend's lips with his own, before finally giving up all inhibitions and kissing Stiles full on the mouth.

And maybe it's a little bit clumsy at first, because Stiles is still sort of crying and Scott is nervous and slightly unsure of himself, because this is his best friend he's kissing, and this is all new for them. And maybe it would taste sort of like salt from all the crying and also sort of like the pepperoni pizza from earlier, but it would still be perfect, because it will have been a long time coming, and Stiles kisses him back with so much enthusiasm he nearly knocks Scott off the bed (it is technically only built for one person, after all).

In the end they just fit so well together, Scott and Stiles, this package deal, this perfect combination; these two kids who have been through so much together, who have known and loved each other practically their entire lives and are just now discovering that that love might be even more multifaceted than they thought.

They already know everything there is to know about each other, not only from a mental and emotional standpoint but from a physical one as well— every mole and every birth mark and every scar — but soon they're exploring each other's bodies in ways that they never have before, and it feels good, it feels _great._

This is them. This is Scott and Stiles, the boys who would go to the ends of the Earth to save each other, who would do anything for each other, who have been each other's anchors long before any supernatural creature stepped foot into their lives. And neither of them will ever stop thinking how lucky they are to have that— to have each other.

Stiles decides that he wouldn't mind making a habit out of this: of waking up in Scott's bed with his best friend curled up at his side, with their clothes scattered all around the room and strewn across the floor. No, he definitely wouldn't mind making a habit out of this.

(And as he watches his friend, who looks so peaceful and content in his sleep, he has a pretty good feeling that Scott wouldn't, either)


End file.
